of her heart, an independence dear to her pride. She judged him with
severity in all his actions, all his attitudes, from the moment when he
had conquered her by sheer strength in the monastery of Praglia to the
moment when their lips had met near the basin of the Acqua Barbarena.
He had shown himself incapable of loving, incapable of decisive action,
irresolute, effeminate in the instability of his mind. Yes, he had been
effeminate until the last; effeminate, unfit to form any virile judgment
of his own hysterical mysticism. In this judgment there was perhaps an
imperfect sincerity, an excess of bitterness, a futile act of rebellion
against this all-powerful, invincible love.

If he had actually become a monk, Jeanne foresaw that he would regret
it. He was too sensual. The first period of sorrow and fervour passed,
his sensuality would reawaken, and lead him to rebel against a faith
that appeals rather to the sentiments and habits of youth than to the
intellect. But had he really become a monk? Jeanne imagined that the
colossal tower of Notre _Dame_, with its slender spire piercing the sky,
the gloomy walls of the Beguinage, the poor stagnant Lac d'Amour, and
even the solemn silence of the dead city, answered "Yes." But it would
be superstitious to hearken to their voices.

"Where are we going?" asked Jeanne, at ten o'clock, putting on her
gloves, while Carlino, who had given Noemi an end of his interminable
muffler to hold, the other being fastened behind his neck, revolved like
a spindle on its axis, until his neck was bigger in circumference than
his head. "And am I really to be the priest of ninety?"

Carlino was annoyed because Noemi laughed, and did not hold the scarf
tight enough.